


When In Rome

by Dolevalan



Category: The Historian - Elizabeth Kostova
Genre: Gen, repost
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-05-17
Updated: 2009-05-17
Packaged: 2018-04-04 06:19:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4128070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dolevalan/pseuds/Dolevalan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Helen Rossi writes her daughter a postcard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When In Rome

Rome was sunny, that afternoon. The light glinted through the piazza, giving an impression of great, open space; then again, perhaps it was simply a contrast to the archives. Helen sometimes wondered if she should just request a cot be set up among the stacks, to save everyone some time. But it was not a serious thought. She was not, after all, going mad. Madness might have been merciful.

But today, she was forced to rest, as it was a Sunday. She'd tried, on occasion, to go to Mass, but had given it up. She was not religious, and walking into a church still caused a throbbing in her neck that was unpleasant, if not outright painful. Besides, attending Mass would make her no safer, no less alone. Instead, she sat in an outdoor café and wrote a postcard. She could have been a tourist, the dark haired woman with an elegant scarf and dark glasses. No longer quite young, perhaps, but young enough that she still noticed men looking at her. To be honest, she noticed them now more than she ever had as a young woman; but then again, not all looks were admiration, and not all eyes were to be trusted.

The waiter, the one she thought of now as hers, was not here today; the café operated with a skeleton crew on Sunday mornings, as so few people came. Not that she wished to see him, particularly. Pretending to ignore his interest was tiresome, not flattering. But still, he was something familiar. It was odd, she found, how she clung to familiar things, now that she had no home. She had not settled anywhere in six years. At least the _țigani_ took their families with them.

Helen concentrated on the English words she crafted for her daughter. As fluent as she was, it was still something that took some effort, and she felt the language another hindrance, added to time and distance to make a thick barrier between herself and her child. Part of her wondered what the point of all this had become. She could just go home. At any time, she could give up, and go see them. But she knew she would not. She kept writing.

She never wrote to Paul. She couldn't articulate precisely why, but the pain she'd caused him....was still causing him... that was a part of it. A large part.

Suddenly, she put down her pen. Her skin felt cool, as if a cloud had passed over the sun, but she could see the square was still bright, flooded with sunshine. The steady pulsing in her neck, never far away from her consciousness, rose to the surface. But it was not, entirely, unpleasant; not this time. He was near. She was certain of it, the way she was certain of her name, or her first language. It was always the same. She always felt cold, shaken, but also filled with an ache that was hard to describe. Being near him was like listening to the violin music of her early childhood, melancholy and somehow alien, despite its intimate familiarity.

Helen did not give him the satisfaction of looking around. She knew she would not see him unless he wished her to, and that if it were his wish, she would see him without her own efforts. She almost fancied she could hear her name on his lips, not in this schoolbook English, but in the hot-blooded, passionate language of her mother. His lips lingered over the vowels and consonants, possessively, knowingly. Her breath caught, though she'd heard nothing. Seen nothing.

She closed her eyes and forced the image of her father before her, like a totem. The image of what her illustrious ancestor had done to this proud, flawed but brilliant man. What she had been unable to prevent before, and what she would never allow again.

Helen imagined she felt amusement, on his part, that this was the memory she chose to fight him with. It was hard to describe, what it was like to feel rather than see his confidence, his knowledge that she would not fight him forever. That she, like all the others before her, would fall. But still, he withdrew. Her skin grew warm again... the pain in her neck grew duller.

And once again, Helen was alone.


End file.
